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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013469">i'll earn a broken heart that i'd be better off without</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost'>Buttercup_ghost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game Oma Kokichi, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Pre-Game Shirogane Tsumugi, compassion fatigue, ig?, this is kinda unedited bc... bleh, vent - Freeform, vent fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:01:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,856</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Didn’t you want everything?” He asks, helplessly, “Don’t you still want everything?”</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>Of course she does. Everyone always just wants everything. That’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the problem. That’s the problem, but she still wants it all. </i></p>
<p>  <i>“You can’t always get what you want,” she says, resigned to starving. Rotting. It’s fine, isn’t it? It’s fine if it isn’t better.</i></p>
<p>  <i>[...]</i></p>
<p>  <i>Counterfeits are as good as she can get. If she cannot consume the world, she will consume the fakes it makes. If she cannot know everything, she will throw away the knowledge and common sense of this world for another. That makes sense, doesn’t it? That makes sense. This world is only full of dissatisfaction. At least, in stories, there are happy endings. It’s only rational. It’s only logic.</i></p>
<p>  <i>[...]</i></p>
<p>  <i>It’s not like lying can change anything. She’s grown disillusioned to that, too. Everything she loves will eventually taste like dust in her mouth. </i></p>
<p>  <i>But that’s fine too, isn’t it? Even if she’s tired of the gritty taste, the texture. It’s fine. The world’s not so simple. It’s too hard to understand, so she’ll stop thinking entirely.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oma Kokichi &amp; Shirogane Tsumugi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i'll earn a broken heart that i'd be better off without</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from ‘cynical fairytale,’ by egg.</p>
<p>i ran out of my new med so for like a whole day my mood just swan dived off of a roof. i’m pretty sure this is the result. it’s a pain, because i only missed one day, yet even starting the med back up, my mood is lower than it should be. i was working myself up to talking to my friends again and now all that progress is compute. so, have a vent fic about my dumb intrusive thoughts personified as shirogane. i know it’s not healthy so i’m trying to push the thoughts away, but. now i feel like i have to start all over again, which is... tough. it shouldn’t be so hard, because i <i>want</i> to talk to my friends, it’s just... bleh. it’s not like i really believe these thoughts, but i still... think them. it might be a bit cruel to even ponder, but... i can’t really help it.</p>
<p>the summary gave me a lot of trouble so please excuse the [...]’s. i know, it looks bad to me too.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re going to die, you know.”</p>
<p>Tsumugi paused her walk, faltering midstep. Her opponent smiled, sly, looking over the chess board previously between them. He was so close to calling check, just a move away. </p>
<p>“Oh?” She keeps her voice light, disinterested.</p>
<p>“Yep,” He drawls, “If you keep down this road, you’ll be all alone. Are you sure you really want that?”</p>
<p>Tsumugi clenched her hands shut, something hot and angry flashing across her vision. She imagines they’re curled around his neck instead, and smiles, red nails making indents on her palms. Freshly coated—she’s always liked to be prepared.</p>
<p>“Like you?” She says, and he laughs.</p>
<p>“Like me,” he confirms. “Are you sure I’m who you want to emulate? Don’t you know what’s important in this life?” He smiled brightly, “It’s not your precious stories, believe it or not.”</p>
<p>Tsumugi knows the answer to this question. She has learned it through pages of books, panels of mangas, screenshots of anime; bright and beautiful and too fantastical to be real. She knows the answer, quick and simple: companionship. Our relationships to others make life worth living—or at the very least, bareable. On the scientific side, socialization is a need, as basic and necessary as any other. Brains wilt without it, like flowers without water. It starves.</p>
<p>Love conquers all. She’s heard that all her life. But she is not so altruistic to believe she’s capable of something true, instead of selfish. (That maybe anyone is.)</p>
<p>She takes. She takes, and takes, and eats, because that’s what the starving do. She is ravenous, but she is also insatiable. She will eat away another’s life, because a soul as barren as her can offer nothing in return, only try to fill itself with things that never last. Her lenses are forever tinted with envy.</p>
<p>Everyone will leave.</p>
<p>(No one believes you when you say you’re a bad person. They will rush to reassure you, even when you’re just being objective. You’ll believe them, until the moment they realize you were right. And then what will you do?) </p>
<p>“Does it matter?” She asks. “Everyone knows I wasn’t going anywhere, at this point. They might have hoped otherwise, but there comes a time where you can’t deny the truth.” She hums, speaking plainly. “You can be disappointed. I’m used to it, anyways.”</p>
<p>He clicks his tongue. “You’re naive,” he says, as if that’s not something she’s heard before.</p>
<p>You have to work for companionship. In the end, Tsumugi is just too tired to bother.</p>
<p>Being healthy has never been an option for her; never sustainable, a wish, a dream, that she can never quite achieve. No matter how hard she tries, it’s impossible anyways. It’s not made for her.</p>
<p>In the end, even trying becomes a luxury she cannot afford. The only safe kind of hope is the kind that’s inconsequential, that loses it meaning as anything but lip service in the real world.</p>
<p>There’s no other way to protect her heart.</p>
<p>“I only really need Danganronpa,” she muses, “I only really need this.”</p>
<p>“That’s wrong.” He sounds upset, the first time she’s heard him be so. “That’s wrong. This isn’t—it won’t mean anything.”</p>
<p>“Why does that matter?” She asks, “I’m too plain to mean anything, anyways.”</p>
<p>“You’re throwing your life away,” he accuses, shaking, “This—this isn’t right. None of this is <em>right</em>. Aren’t you lonely?”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you?” She tilts her head. “You’re the same as me. You’re here, too.” She smiled, “Isn't it because you’re sick of <em>being</em>?”</p>
<p>He flinches, and her smile sharpens.</p>
<p>“What a hypocrite.” She laughs at him.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” he hisses, composure lost. “You don’t know <em>anything</em>.”</p>
<p>“And you think you do?” She asks, “What right do you have to say this isn’t the correct answer?”</p>
<p>To forget it all, and lose herself in stories. Isn’t that heaven on earth? (Isn’t that <em>stagnation—</em>isn’t that<em> hell</em>?)</p>
<p>“It’s not like fiction can change the world,” she says, “So it’s fine if I just ignore it, right? I don’t want the world. I don’t want to change it.”</p>
<p>“You used to,” He seethes, “You used to, you used to, <em>you used to</em>.”</p>
<p>“But I can’t.” She says, “No matter how hard I try, change is impossible. So it doesn’t matter if I ignore it. It doesn’t matter anyways.”</p>
<p>“That’s what causes worlds like this!” He snaps, “Why do you complain and do <em>nothing</em>?” He pulls at his hair, “Why do you wish for a kinder world yet do nothing to see it come to fruition?”</p>
<p>“I’m tired.” She says, “None of my trying ever works. What’s the point in it? Someone else can do it better. I can’t <em>do</em> anything, not really, no matter how much I try. I don’t want the spotlight if it comes with the consequences of it.”</p>
<p>“That’s selfish,” he accuses, “You’re selfish. I <em>hate</em> people like you.”</p>
<p><em>So do I,</em> she doesn’t say, tucked carefully in her teeth. Like all dangerous things, caught between them.</p>
<p>“I’m <em>tired</em>.” She repeats, a broken record. “Every year, I just get more and more tired. I can’t help people.”</p>
<p>She’s tired of talking. She’s tired of nurturing the bonds she loses one by one, no matter how hard she tries to hold on; tired of giving advice, helping, talking them through their issues. Companionship is a two way street. She doesn’t know how to drive. </p>
<p>She’s tired of <em>caring</em>.</p>
<p>She shouldn’t be. She has always hated people too tired to care the most.</p>
<p>But why bothering <em>holding on</em> when the thread between them all snap eventually? What’s truly the difference between <em>eventually</em> and <em>now</em>? Why stall the inevitable, when it will just hurt more when you do? What’s even the point in bonds, when they break just as easily? Once bitten, twice shy. It is so easy to break trust; hers, or others. It is so hard to earn, when she has never been worthy.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you want everything?” He asks, helplessly, “Don’t you <em>still</em> want everything?”</p>
<p>Of course she does. Everyone always just wants everything. That’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the problem. That’s the problem, but she still wants it all. </p>
<p>“You can’t always get what you want,” she says, resigned to starving. Rotting. It’s fine, isn’t it? It’s fine if it isn’t better.</p>
<p>She has never known the meaning of the word.</p>
<p>Counterfeits are as good as she can get. If she cannot consume the world, she will consume the fakes it makes. If she cannot know everything, she will throw away the knowledge and common sense of this world for another. That makes sense, doesn’t it? That makes sense. This world is only full of dissatisfaction. At least, in stories, there are happy endings. It’s only rational. It’s only logic.</p>
<p>(She’s cold. As cold as her ice eyes.)</p>
<p>If there is nothing worthy here, in the real world, then what does it matter? What does it matter if she blocks her eyes with books and shows and stories, averted from the truth? She’s not a hero. She doesn’t believe in them, not really. Not anymore.</p>
<p>If she is unfair to the people around her, if she does not know <em>how</em> to <em>be</em> fair, if mistakes are all that’s in her wake and future the same, if she stays—then why stay? Isn’t it better if she’s alone, if she can never be fair to the people she loves? Isn’t it better if she just stops bothering them? </p>
<p>They would never tell her, she thinks. She <em>thought</em>. She used to think, they’re too kind for that. So she kept quiet, too. Let herself be blind, believe the lies that it was fine, <em>she</em> was fine, worthy, worth it. That her pains were worth her splendor. Hah. What splendor? They leave, eventually. Why did she believe differently? It’s already starting, so isn’t it better to save herself the pain? </p>
<p>(How selfish. How horribly, horribly selfish. But she’s <em>tired</em>.) </p>
<p>She doesn’t hate herself. It’s just the truth. She’s grown apathetic, to such a thing.</p>
<p>(It’s not like she wants to die, either. It’s not like she wants to die, so what other choice can she choose? Living is hard, but everyone always tells her she’s not <em>allowed</em> to die. To do <em>anything</em> to hold on, that to <em>die</em> is <em>giving up </em>and giving up is the worst kind of shame, that it always get better. They don’t realize you have to <em>make</em> it get better. You have to <em>work</em> to get healthy, and she just can’t do the work. Nothing is ever just handed to you, you have to take <em>responsibility</em>. It won’t get better just waiting for it; idle hands are the devils playthings—but she’s so, so tired of <em>trying</em> and <em>failing</em> over and over again. So what other choice does she have? To live means to fight, for living is a rebellion, but her rebellion has been sapped with constant effort that goes no where at all. She was built wrong; wasn’t meant to do this, to clamor and grasp so desperately for footing, for air, for connection that slips through her fingers like sand. She has never not been lonely. In the end, it’s fine if she’s drowns; there’s no other choice anymore. Hell is a world without change. So is heaven. So what’s the point? If she’s not allowed to die, if she’s too afraid to even want it, yet too tired to live correctly—then why not stagnant in purgatory instead? Neither extremes have ever been reachable; no matter what, she can’t leave an impact. She could throw herself off of a building, and she would never make an impact.)</p>
<p>It’s not like lying can change anything. She’s grown disillusioned to that, too. Everything she loves will eventually taste like dust in her mouth. </p>
<p>But that’s fine too, isn’t it? Even if she’s tired of the gritty taste, the texture. It’s fine. The world’s not so simple. It’s too hard to understand, so she’ll stop thinking entirely.</p>
<p>It’s not like she was made for anything else. </p>
<p>But still, she misses. She aches. She’s lonely.</p>
<p>At least if she’s alone it’s by choice.</p>
<p>She sighs, and turns her head. “It’s not like it matters, Kokichi,” she says, “Even someone like you should understand. That’s why you’re doing this, right? Do you really think you can change the world, when you become a lie?”</p>
<p>Kokichi Ouma—her opponent, her accomplice, her <em>reflection</em>—looks at her, blank faced and determined. “I will,” he says, “A lie can become the truth, and a lie can change the world. Enough people just have to believe in it.”</p>
<p>She smiled, wry. “How idealistic,” She says, “But aren’t you just admitting you’re not enough?” </p>
<p>His lips press together, a grim line.</p>
<p>“It’s better than giving up.”</p>
<p>She’s not so sure about that. “Well, whatever,” she turns back on her heel, letting her shoes clack against the tiles. “It’s not my problem.” </p>
<p>She walks away, and tries not to look back. It’s not her problem. It’s <em>not</em>. </p>
<p>Still, she risks a glance, eyes meeting one last time, purple and blue.</p>
<p>Like bruises and suffocation.</p>
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